


bronzing the wave

by mellyflori



Series: my ship coming in [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M, Unrepentant Schmoop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4401302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’d warned him, of course.  The head of the security office had pulled him aside earlier in the week.  “Athos, I’m sorry because I know this is probably the kind of thing you like the least. If it helps, everyone else has had to do it, too.”  </p><p>It doesn’t help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2005 - Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Rather than trying to finish this all before posting, like I did with 'cargo of joy', I'm posting it in chapters as a motivator to finish. This is the companion piece to 'cargo of joy' and as such will eventually have other familiar faces in it. I would apologize for writing another fluffy romantic thing that'll eventually be kidfic, but you'd know I was lying.

 

**2005 - Christmas**

He’s making a list of the dumbest questions he’s been asked all night. Since the public really started flowing in, sometime after six, he’s been the recipient of some real gems.

“Do you live here?” (No, madame, this is the Ambassador’s residence.)

“Are you really French?” (That is the passport I currently hold, yes.)

“Is that your real accent?” (I have been practicing it for years.)

“Do you really eat snails?” (Yes, it is a requirement for citizenship.)

They’d warned him, of course. The head of the security office had pulled him aside earlier in the week. “Athos, I’m sorry because I know this is probably the kind of thing you like the least. If it helps, everyone else has had to do it, too.”

It doesn’t help.

Athos thinks fondly of his office at the embassy itself. It’s boring and plain and quiet. The other list he’s keeping is all the things he’d give up to be in that office tonight.

He’s not, though. Tonight he’s at the ambassador’s residence as part of the team responsible for visiting with the public at the Holiday Open House. There’s an enormous Christmas tree and quiet music from a quartet in the corner and there is not nearly enough champagne.

In his three months as a resident of the United States, he’s not really been out much. For the first couple of weeks he went out on the weekends and wandered into museums or tried to take in the sights, but realized what he really needed, after the breakup and the move, was some quiet. Since then he’s been spending his evenings reading and enjoying the silence and having no one else determining his schedule. He’d begun to think perhaps it was to get out in the world a bit again.

Tonight is _not_ what he meant.

He spends fifteen minutes delicately fending off a skinny teenaged girl with an astonishing overbite. She's dressed all in black, attempting — badly — to flirt with him in her abysmal 10th grade French. He gives directions to the restrooms at least eight times. He tells four different children to put down priceless antiques.

There are a few bright spots. A D-Day veteran tells him a short, exceptionally bawdy story about his time in Paris after V-E day. A delightful young mother with terrifyingly polite children in matching Christmas outfits asks about the piano and they talk for a few minutes about the music for the evening. But for every one of those there’s another four telling him how they’d heard the French don’t like to shower and making ill-informed jokes about how often the French Army surrenders.

With all that, it’s no wonder he’s watching the time. There’s a big ornate standing clock in the ballroom, and the sweeping second hand makes it easy to mark the passing of every moment. Because of that, because he’s watching the clock tick, for the rest of his days he’ll know that the worst moment of his life happens at seventeen minutes after eight on that cold Thursday evening.

The couple who’ve just come through the door bear too striking a resemblance to each other to be anything but siblings. They’re both tall and lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and unspeakably beautiful. She’s in a long, cinnamon-colored wool coat, her hair is wild and loose, and she’s laughing. He’s in a bright yellow puffy parka, and he’s wearing a ski toque with loud horizontal stripes and an enormous puffball on top.

Athos’s sigh is a thing of gothic romance proportions. It stretches from his lungs to every finger tip, and his face is a windswept moor of misery.

“This is it,” he thinks. “It will never get worse than this. At twenty-eight, I finally discover that love at first sight exists, it’s real, but it’s wearing _that hat_.”

He greets them with his best smile and does his _very_ best to divide his eye contact equally between them as they ask questions. Sometime between, “Are the decorations handmade?” and, “Do they at least let you sample the champagne?” he realizes he’s failing miserably. The woman is grinning at him and she’s begun starting her questions with “My _brother_ was wondering…”

As her questions begin to get more far-fetched and ridiculous, the brother begins to appear slightly terrified. Mildly drugged and paranoid is the other option, but Athos is leaning towards terrified. Irritatingly, it’s given his face the most alluring flush. Every time he blinks his eyes his obscenely long lashes brush his cheeks and Athos has to try not to stammer while speaking.

As Athos is answering the woman’s questions the man is staring at him, mouth open just a bit and breathing shallow. Sometime in the middle of explaining that he’s actually new in the country Athos realizes that the brother is staring at his lips.

Given that Athos seems equally incapable of looking away from the young man in front of him he’s not surprised that the next time he checks the clock two hours have passed.

“I have enjoyed immensely our talk tonight, but I’m afraid the public space is closing for the evening.” His smile is positively beatific; he just wants to get them safely out the door, lock it and pour the dregs of every champagne bottle in the room directly down his throat.

The sister’s smile is sweet and earnest. She holds her hand out. “We can’t thank you enough for all your time. I’m Alexandra, by the way.”

“Athos. And I assure you, the pleasure was mine.”

Alexandra stares at her brother; he’s looking back at her as though she’s just informed him that the patient in front of him is going to die if he doesn’t operate immediately. She huffs a little sigh. “And this is my brother.”

The brother turns, startled, to look at Athos and holds out his hand. He mumbles something, his name most likely, but Athos can only make out the end “... d’Artagnan.”

Athos smiles at d'Artagnan. At least now he’ll have a name to feel mortified about shouting out later tonight as he's having possibly the saddest shower-wank ever.

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Alexandra gives a frustrated grunt and begins rummaging in her handbag. She pulls out a pad of post-it notes and a pen and scribbles on the top note before tearing it off. She grabs her brother’s hand, slaps the post-it into it. Holding her brother’s hand out she shakes it a little until Athos takes the note from it and stares at them both in confusion.

Alexandra's voice is theatrically deep when she says, "Hi, it's nice to meet you. The face I've been making for the last two hours is the face of a man who is totally crazy about you and would like you to call him. Here's my number.”

“Alex!” D’Artagnan’s face has flushed red to where the tips of his ears would be visible were they not covered by that abomination of knitwear.

Athos can hear the snap as he closes his own mouth. His only option is to resort to polite banality again. “I hope you enjoyed your visit.”

Alexandra stuffs the notepad and pen back in her purse. “You’re _both_ hopeless.” She smiles back up at Athos and waves as she begins dragging her brother towards the door. “We’ll leave you to your evening. But really, you should call."

As the door closes behind them, Athos can hear her say “Since when are _you_ shy?”

Athos sags against the grand piano and thinks that there will _never_ be enough champagne for this.

The rest of the night feels as though flashes of d’Artagnan have been shuffled in with Athos' normal routine like red suit cards in a black deck.

He gets take-out Thai on the way home and thinks about d’Artagnan’s eyes, liquid and black. He pours himself a scotch and imagines licking d’Artagnan’s absolute sin of a mouth. He shoots the bolt home on the front door and considers how d’Artagnan’s skin would look in the dim light of Athos’ front hall.

When Athos finally takes himself in hand later that night he runs through the entire deck of images, but the one that settles in his mind as his toes curl and he comes over his hand, is d’Artagnan laughing at something Alexandra had said. His nose had scrunched up and his mouth had widened and his face had lit up.

The evidence of his orgasm is still cooling on Athos’ hand when he realizes he just got off to the image of a man laughing at a terrible pun about reindeer. Athos groans, “Oh, fuck me.”

 

 

It’s the continuing sentiment that he has sunk as low as he possibly can in his levels of personal dignity that allows Athos to actually make the call the next day. “I’m nearly certain I’ll regret this later, but since last night I can’t stop thinking about you, and as long as you’re willing to leave that hat at home, I’d like to buy you a coffee.”

“You’re really terrible at this, aren’t you?” d'Artagnan asks.

“I’m atrocious at it, yes. I’ll be going now.” He’s about to press the “End” button when he hears d’Artagnan’s startled voice.

“No! No, don’t go. I would love to have coffee with you.”

Athos stares at the phone in confusion and then brings it to his ear to ask, “Are you absolutely certain?”

D’Artagnan laughs, “Are you trying to talk yourself out of a date?”

“I… no?”

They set a time and a place and Athos hangs up before he says something even more ridiculous. The last thing he needs is to cause an international diplomatic incident before he’s gotten out the door that morning.

 

 

The date is exceptionally awkward for the first five minutes. Athos is over-dressed and keeps plucking at his sleeves nervously. D’Artagnan is wearing some kind of thin, loose sweatpants that press against his legs as he walks and drape obscenely over his groin when he sits. They are doing exactly fuck-all to help Athos’ nervousness.

Athos is ready to call it a wash and go on about his orderly - if more than a little boring - life. He’s got enough masturbatory fodder from just watching d’Artagnan walk into the café in those sweatpants to last him a few years. His attempt to marshal up a convincing excuse to leave is interrupted by the server coming to take their orders.

Needing to fortify himself, Athos orders a double espresso. D’Artagnan’s smile is luminous so Athos almost misses his order. “Can I just get a latté?” The server looks at him expectantly and then walks away slightly confused when d’Artagnan says, “That’s it. Just a latté.”

Athos drops his head into his hands. “Oh, thank fuck. You’re not some pretentious double-foam-triple-syrup-chocolate-shavings coffee drinker.”

D’Artagnan’s face is curious. “You wouldn’t have found me attractive if I’d had a complicated coffee order?”

“No no, I’d still have found you attractive. But being attracted to a man with an unnecessarily complicated coffee order _and_ your taste in hats might have been more than I could handle. God what an incredibly depressing thing to have to put on a suicide note."

D’Artagnan’s laugh fills the entire café. It burrows between mugs and slides under tables and plays in the lights, and Athos can not imagine living his life without ever hearing it again.

“Is it just a French thing? You’re uptight about coffee, are you also uptight about pairing the right wine with your dinner courses and reusable shopping bags?”

Athos bristles. “Do you imagine that there aren’t certain kinds of wines that enhance the flavors of specific dishes but not others? It’s basic chemist—“ D’Artagnan drops his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. "You’re fucking with me.”

Looking up from under the hair that’s fallen in his eyes, d’Artagnan smiles. “I’m fucking with you. Can you blame me? You made it far too easy."

“I’m glad I could bring some amusement into your day.” Athos’ mouth is twitching with a smile. He doesn’t want to find this boy charming, but he’s utterly powerless.

“You did. You do. And it will please you to know that even on my starving student’s salary I try to make sure I pair my $5 white wine with chicken nuggets and my $5 red wine with spaghetti.”

Athos sniffs in the way perfected by the French sometime around 1580 and passed down through the generations since then. “Are they at least the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets? Please tell me you have _some_ taste.”

D’Artagnan thanks the server for his latté and takes a sip. The barest hint of a milky-colored mustache is clinging to his own facial hair when he says, “Nothing but the best. I pair them with the fries shaped like smiley faces.”

Athos tries to remember the last time he felt a laugh actually bubble out of him, but he’s at a loss. It seems to surprise d’Artagnan as well. Athos almost says something about it but then d’Artagnan licks the coffee from his upper lip and Athos loses his power of speech for a moment.

When he gets it back, he decides that not envisioning other things that tongue is capable of is the better part of valor and changes the subject. “What kind of student?"

D’Artagnan is student teaching during his last semester in Georgetown’s Early Childhood Education program. He tells Athos about some of his students, about how he’s looking forward to starting work full time in the fall and working on his masters at night.

His parents are both teachers. His mother, Italian herself, teaches French and Italian; his father teaches literature. Three of his four sisters are also teachers (Alexandra is the black sheep, he says, she’s pre-med). He goes on to describe their ongoing bulletin board design competition with expansive hand gestures and loving descriptions of borders and motifs and Athos can hear a noise in his head like a strand on a cable snapping. A quiet *plink*.

 _Oh fuck_ , he thinks. I _’ve gone and fallen for him. We’ve been at coffee for half an hour and I am in love with a man who thinks a bright yellow parka is acceptable outerwear for anyone other than a member of a mountain rescue team._

D’Artagnan is talking now about children, about how he loves their enthusiasm and how easy it is, with the right techniques, to get them interested in learning. He’s talking about how in his family you had to like children or you’d go mad. "Huge family, all French-Italian, and there were always children everywhere. You should see the holidays,” when, without warning, Athos is looking at the future.

In the space of a blink, he can see the rest of their lives together. Stretching out in front of him are years of living together in a house full of touching and humor. He can see himself bringing coffee to d’Artagnan while he crams for exams and taking him out for celebratory dinners when he aces them. He can see d’Artagnan playing Santa for a pile of nieces and nephews on Christmas morning. There will be years of waking up next to each other in bed, of teaching children to drive and arguing over whether the flat is big enough or if they need to move. If they are very, very lucky, there will be afternoons of letting afternoon sun warm old bones while they sit with their age-spotted hands intertwined.

Athos puts a hand to his stomach, momentarily a little nauseated. He’s never been that guy. He wouldn’t know hopeless romance if he sat on it, and yet it appears to have shown up, all unasked for and unexpected, for coffee.

The hardest thing for him is how perfectly _true_ it all seems. Of course he should love this ridiculous man with his irritating hats and his love of big, loud family dinners. Athos is a man of impeccably pressed suits and quiet afternoons with slim, pretentious novels, but nothing has ever felt as right to him as the thought of upending every plan he thought he had to make room in his life for a man whose ideal job description involves Play-Doh.

Athos tosses back his espresso ( _Oh lovely, Athos, caffeine is just what you need right now_ ) just so he can do something with his face besides sitting there looking shocked. When he puts his hand down on the table d’Artagnan stops talking and slides his hand over to cover Athos’.

“Are you alright? You’re shaking."

“I’m fine,” Athos smiles. “I’m great."


	2. 2007 - September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D’Artagnan sighs and scrapes the apples into the pan. “I’m so sorry, Alex, that you’ve married a man who is not only loving and kind but also has a good job. It must be quite a hardship.”
> 
> “Don’t be an ass. Oh lovely, here’s the form about reproductive health offerings. This is the one where I get irritated by how many more options there are for coverage of erectile dysfunction drugs than there are for maternity care. It’s so frustrating, you know?”
> 
> Athos catches his eye from across the room and grins before he raises his voice and in a dry tone says “I’m afraid we wouldn’t, Alexandra. As we’ve no call for maternity care and—“
> 
> “And thanks to my brother I’m well aware of the precise details of your erectile function,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... there's a little weirdness at the end of this one. A little departure from anything I've published/posted before. It doesn't change the plot, but it might be a little off-putting to some of you. If you're curious or worried, I'll put the details in the end notes. But please note that from beginning to end of this they're still our boys and they're still besotted and happy and planning their lives. Because that's the kind of thing I need right now.
> 
> If you read the end notes and it *would* bother you, it's all at the end so just stop reading at 'Athos stiffens slightly.' Then search for 'perhaps we should ask Alex to help' and start reading again at that sentence.

**2007 - September**

Alexandra’s Sunday call comes in the middle of lunch preparations, green apple curry, so d’Artagnan puts her on speakerphone and continues chopping.

“Can I just bitch for a second?”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan’s voice is slightly concerned. Alex has been married less than a year; he’s hoping there isn’t trouble so soon.

“Rodrigo’s company is doing their annual benefits enrollment and I’m knee-deep in stupid forms about health insurance.”

D’Artagnan sighs and scrapes the apples into the pan. “I’m so sorry, Alex, that you’ve married a man who is not only loving and kind but also has a good job. It must be quite a hardship.”

“Don’t be an ass. Oh lovely, here’s the form about reproductive health offerings. This is the one where I get irritated by how many more options there are for coverage of erectile dysfunction drugs than there are for maternity care. It’s so frustrating, you know?”

Athos catches his eye from across the room and grins before he raises his voice and in a dry tone says “I’m afraid we wouldn’t, Alexandra. As we’ve no call for maternity care and—“

“And thanks to my brother I’m well aware of the precise details of your erectile function,” she says.

D’Artagnan puts both hands up, his face a mask of innocence. “I haven’t said a word.”

Athos tries to look menacing and fails miserably. D’Artangnan laughs and his smile spreads across his face, which is exactly what Athos was hoping for. That smile never gets old; it never stops making Athos’ neck flush red.

Alex’s voice calls out again, “Oh! Now this is interesting. Apparently they’ll pay for me to have my eggs frozen. I should do that for Rodrigo for Christmas. I could get one of those mini-fridges and just put them in the little freezer compartment.”

“I’m not sure it works like that,” d’Artagnan says.

“Of course it doesn’t work like that. Still, it’s something to think about. Maybe I’ll give you guys one as well.”

“Mini-fridge?”

“No, asshole, an egg. I haven’t reached critical mass on nieces and nephews yet, and you two need to do your part.”

D’Artagnan looks across the kitchen to see Athos, face pale and knuckles white where they’re gripping the edge of the table, staring back at him with a look of panic.

“Thanks, Alex. You’ve just given Athos a heart attack.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some way to revive the old man. In fact, I’ll leave you to it. I need to go meet mom and Valentina for lunch.”

Goodbyes are said and d’Artagnan turns the heat off under the curry before he joins Athos at the table. He cups Athos’ face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, feeling the beard soft under his skin.

“She was just joking, no one expects us to… No one expects anything. And even if they did, it’s our life, yours and mine, and if you don’t want kids, we won’t have kids.”

Athos reaches up, eyes wide, and grabs one of d’Artagnan’s hands, pressing it harder against his face. “Nothing, _nothing_ , would make me happier than to see you with a child of ours.”

“Then why that reaction?”

Athos smiles a little, soft and a little sad, and tilts his head into their intertwined hands. “You’re so young, there’s so much still ahead of you. I worry that even theoretical discussions of future commitments will make you realize you deserve better in this life than to live out your days chained to my grumpy self and all that comes with that.”

“Your inexplicable love for Danish arthouse films, you mean? Or how you’re a terrible cook? Maybe you’re talking about how you won’t let me look up directions when we’re going somewhere because you say there’s a perfectly good sat-nav in your car?”

“I was thinking more of—“

“I don’t care, Athos. Because I love your terrible movie collection, and I love cooking for you. I love your awful sense of direction, too, because it comes along with the rest of you. It comes with your passion and your smile. I get your moody spells in the same package as I get the way you remember the name of every child and spouse of the people who work with you so you can ask after them.”

D’Artagnan leans in and puts his forehead against Athos’. "You think I can’t want a lifetime with a man who always forgets to pick up at least one thing on the grocery list, but you’ve forgotten the way you kiss me so completely before I leave to go pick it up. I will take everything about you that you think is bad, because they come together with the way you’re looking at me right now."

The kiss is soft, not the kind of demanding rush of a kiss Athos might have expected. D’Artagnan is just dotting the ‘i’s in his sentiment.

“I love you,” Athos says. It’s not the first time, but every time he gets to say it is a gift. “I wanted to talk about all of it, of course. I just thought perhaps it was something we could approach soberly and rationally, something we would discuss for a while before we came to a decision.”

D’Artagnan smiles at him.

“I know,” Athos says. “Foolish of me. And I suppose it is fitting that Alexandra is the one who brought it up, she’s the reason we’re even here together.”

“Just so we’re clear, Athos, I am all in. Every day, all the days. If you’re up for it, I want kids and houses and family Christmases where you grumble about how many people there are, and we sneak off to the laundry room to make out. I want to wake up next to you every day for forever."

“You’ll never know, you can’t know, how lucky I feel.”

D’Artagnan presses a kiss to his lips and grins, “That’s no reason you can’t try to show me."

They make it to the bed with an odd dance of grasping hands and seeking mouths. Naked, stretched out on the sheets, d’Artagnan smiles up at Athos.  
  
“You will be the most amazing father. I can’t wait to see it.”

Athos buries his face in d’Artagnan’s neck and sighs. “I wish having a baby were as easy for us as it is for some couples.”

“I know, I do. It would be so much easier.” Athos can feel d’Artagnan’s smile against his face with the next words. “Plus I’d get to have that pregnant glow and demand that you bring me ridiculous food at unreasonable hours.”

Athos stiffens slightly. It’s outrageous, of course, it’s biologically impossible for the two of them, and even when Athos was sleeping with women, he never found himself particularly drawn to those who were expecting. Still, the idea of it has Athos’ heart racing.

He tries to bury it while he kisses d’Artagnan breathless. Athos’ hands skim down d’Artagnan’s ribs, gripping his slim hips. He sweeps his thumbs over the jut of bone and the soft skin of d’Artagnan’s belly. The image comes to him again of d’Artagnan with his arms full of a tiny squirming bundle with dark hair and Athos is struck by a wave of fierce protectiveness. That child is not real, not even more than a fond wish, and if it does come d’Artagnan won’t carry it, but Athos finds himself wanting to defend even the idea of them like that.

Burying his teeth in the skin over d’Artagnan’s hip, Athos waits until he hears d’Artagnan hiss and then swipes his tongue over the bite marks, soothing them. “Over on your belly.”

With one hand sweeping down d’Artagnan’s back and over his ass, Athos slicks the fingers of his other hand with lube. He slides them into the crease of d’Artagnan’s ass, brushing over his hole and listening to him gasp. Athos runs one curled knuckle over and over that furl of muscle, feeling it opening for him, stretching over his finger. D’Artagnan is always beautiful like this, spread beneath him, but tonight there’s something else.

D’Artagnan looks back over his shoulder. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you? You know it’s impossible, but you’re still thinking about what it would be like.” Something on Athos’ face must give him away, because d’Artagnan’s breath speeds up, his mouth dropping open slightly and his gaze turning glassy. “Would you do that for me, Athos?”

Barely holding himself back as it was, Athos is helpless once d’Artagnan starts to play along.

“Tell me what you want, my love. Tell me what you want me to do.”

D’Artagnan’s face is on fire and Athos knows that the little wisp of shame coiling in d’Artagnan’s belly is only making this better. “Fill me up. Put your baby in me?”

Athos slides two fingers in, listening to d’Artagnan’s breath coming short and fast. “Of course I will. Of course, I’ll give you that."

He can hear d’Artagnan keening into the pillow. “How could I resist the idea of you under me like that.” Athos curls himself over d’Artagnan’s back until he’s whispering directly into his ear, fingers still pressing and stretching at d’Artagnan’s ass. “Just the thought of you, so ripe, spread open and waiting for me to fill you. Perfectly lush and ready, you’d be.”

D’Artagnan moans and squirms his hips into the bed, grinding his cock against the sheets. Athos tugs at his hips, pulling d’Artagnan up onto his knees, then runs his hands around d’Artagnan’s ribs, trailing them over his stomach. D’Artagnan’s abs are perfectly flat, tight with the effort of holding himself in this position, but Athos knows neither of them is seeing him like that right now.

“Please, Athos.” D’Artagnan’s hips are arching back up into Athos’ hand and Athos knows he’s ready.

His actions mimic his words as he says, “Do you feel me? Do you feel me sliding my cock into you? You’re so fucking hot and open for me right now. Just perfect, always so perfect.” He leans forward until he can press a kiss between d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades.

“I’d fuck you,” he says. “Fuck you until you were full. Full of me and you together, both of us. You’d walk around with my baby making your belly so swollen and I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you. I’d fuck you just like this. I’d put you on your knees and I’d fuck you with your belly in my hands, feel your skin tight under my palms and know I did that for you."

Athos is lost in the impossible notion of it all. He’s besotted with the idea of d’Artagnan, already so beautiful, so heavy and full, and overwhelmed by how fiercely protective it makes him feel even in its impossibility. “You'd have part of me in you, won’t you my love? And you’d love to do that for me, I know you would, because you know I wish I could stay inside you forever.”

D’Artagnan’s head drops between his shoulders, he’s groaning now. “Do it. God, Athos, do it. Take me like that, feel what you did to me, how good you were to give me that. Please, do it.”

It’s d’Artagnan begging for something they both know isn’t possible, that flashing instant of realness about an unreal thing, that sends Athos over the edge. As he's coming, he can feel d’Artagnan shift under him, putting a hand around himself and stroking fast and hard. Athos’ vision goes white at the edges and he can feel the big muscles of his jaw bunching as he clenches his teeth. D’Artagnan goes tight around Athos as he’s crying out with his own release.

They both collapse forward, Athos draped over d’Artagnan’s back, d’Artagnan, somehow uncomplaining, belly-down in his own mess. Athos’ hand drifts down over d’Artagnan’s back and cups his ass. He can feel d’Artagnan wet with him, open and a little sloppy, and it’s completely intoxicating. Athos slips his fingers in just for the enjoyment of how easy it is, feeling his own come slipping out around his hand.

D’artagnan turns his head to the side, smiles at Athos. “Well, that was…”

Athos smiles back. “It was, yes.”

“I love you, even your well-hidden alpha male side. And I love you even if we have to have our baby the old fashioned gay way.”

Athos presses kisses to d’Artagnan’s cheek, behind his ear, the side of his neck. “About that, if— when we do, perhaps we _should_ ask Alex to help. If she’s willing.”

D’Artagnan stares at him and Athos shrugs. It’s an uncharacteristic move for him and it drives home to d’Artagnan just how nervous Athos is to even mention this.

“Part from your family and part from me is as close as modern science can come to a child that’s made from the two of us.”

The kiss d’Artagnan gives him is quick and hard; Athos can feel d’Artagnan smiling against his lips. “We’ll call her later.”

Athos is startled. “What, today?”

“This isn’t something I have to talk myself into. I’ve always wanted this, and since I met you, I’ve wanted it _with you_. I want to see the world with you still, of course, but imagine showing all those wonderful places to our kid as well.” His grin quirks up a little on one side. “And you’re not getting any younger.”

Athos swats his ass hard enough to leave a bright pink handprint. “You’re a terrible wretch, you’re very lucky I love you.”

D'Artagnan smiles, warm and honest. “I am _very_ lucky, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you're ever like, 'I think they should talk about having a kid and then have celebratory sex,' and then your best friend is like, 'It would be interesting if this were a chance to see Athos' protective, primal side come out and he's all thinking about making a baby with D,' I recommend you do exactly what I did and say, 'Did you just put random breeding kink in my inbox?' She'll reply, 'That depends, did you like it? Because if not, then no I didn't.' At which point you should go, 'No, I love that. I can totally see that. I'mma do that.'
> 
> You should then spend two months wondering if this is going to weird out the entire fandom until you have enough conversations with people who are like, 'No. It works. Also fandom is full of big girls and boys and they can just deal,' after which you just go, 'Fuck it.' Then you hit the POST button.


	3. 2008 - December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan clutches Anora into a hug so tight she makes a little "oof" sound. "I can't... thank you seems so small," he says.
> 
> She pats his cheek. "You guys are going to be aces at this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little break for me from writing OT3 schmoop to give you some kid schmoop. If you're not into kidfic, this is where it gets kidfic and I don't even give you sex to make up for it (next chapter, pinky swear, so much sex). This may be the chapter where it really earns the 'unrepentant schmoop' tag.

 

  
**2008 - December**

It’s d’Artagnan who takes the call. He’s just gotten back from an afternoon of Christmas shopping with Alexandra. In exchange for not forcing him to join them, Athos calls for takeout and has dinner waiting when they get back. Alex is poking at her lasagna and teasing Athos about what d’Artagnan bought him when the phone rings.

D’Artagnan is still laughing at the look on Athos’ face as he’s picking up the phone, “Hello.”

Athos is in the middle of a comment about needing another scarf like he needs another hole in his head when he sees d’Artagnan’s face go pale and his eyes wide. Alex and Athos both stop talking immediately. D’Artagnan just nods and then suddenly, “Yes, sorry. Yes, thank you. No, I’ll tell him.” He hangs up the phone and turns to stare at them.

Athos is counting off all the possibilities in his head. He’s just gotten past the idea that perhaps something has happened to one of d’Artagnan’s parents when d’Artangnan turns to him and says, “That was Anora. She’s pregnant.”

Alex is the only one of them who speaks at first, yelling congratulations. D’Artagnan is just grinning from ear to ear and Athos is trying desperately not to cry and oh, holy fuck, they’re going to be parents. Athos is going to be someone’s father and d’Artagnan is going to be someone’s daddy, and then d’Artangnan is launching himself into Athos’ arms and Athos is clinging to him desperately.

“Still a good idea, yes?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Still the best idea,” Athos says.

They both go with Anora to the first ultrasound. She’s six weeks and there on the screen is the tiniest rushing flicker. “That’s the heart,” the tech says and Athos tightens his grip on d’Artagnan’s hand to the point of pain. Anora is staring up at them both and laughing, she’s so happy for them. When they were looking for a surrogate they met a lot of candidates, but the instant they met Anora no one else stood a chance. Months and months later that is still true.

Neither of them buys anything until the first trimester is over. They’re still not _technically_ in the clear, but it’s long enough for them to be cautiously optimistic. The first thing d’Artagnan buys is a copy of _Goodnight Moon_ , because he bursts into tears reading it in the bookstore and is pretty sure he should buy it if he got the pages all wet. The first thing Athos buys is the ugliest knitted hat he can find.

There’s a small scare at eighteen weeks when Anora starts spotting. She calls them to say she’s at her doctor’s office and that everything looks fine, but they’re doing an ultrasound anyway and do Athos and d’Artagnan want to come see? They’d both arranged to be free the morning of the next planned ultrasound in two weeks, but that doesn’t stop them from rushing to this one.

The radiology tech confirms that everything is fine, the baby is fine. “Good strong heartbeat, little limbs moving. He’s doing great.”

There’s a rushing in Athos’ ears and then the sound of d’Artagnan saying, “He?”

_A son_ , Athos thinks. _I’m going to have a son. Dear God, please don’t let me fuck him up._

It’ll be half a decade before a kind-eyed pediatrician looks at Athos and says, “All parents fuck their kids up a little. Just love him as much as you can and worry about not fucking him up too much. Trying to not fuck him up at all will just make everyone crazy.”

 

 

  
It’s a miserably sticky mid-Atlantic June day when Anora calls to say that she’s on her way to the hospital. She’s been in labor for about eight hours and the timing is right for her to head out. They take Athos’ car; d’Artagnan grabs the little duffel bag of clothes and the gift for Anora and tosses them next to the pathologically correctly installed car seat before they tear away from the curb.

It’s quieter than either of them expected. Anora’s doula is with her, keeping her occupied. A nurse pokes her head in every few minutes to make sure all is well. No one is screaming, no one is being rushed from one room to another, not a single person in the room is wearing a surgical mask. D’Artagnan says he feels robbed.

Anora is between contractions so her sense of humor is back, she looks at d’Artagnan and smirks. “Next time, I’ll get you both the whole outfit, okay?"

Athos hears, ‘next time’ and is hit with a perfectly clear image of d’Artagnan holding hands with two dark-haired, bright-eyed children, one on either side of him as they walk. He’s reeling with the clarity of it when d’Artagnan’s laugh snaps him back to reality. Later. They’ll talk about it later. So, so much later.

Anora and the doula go for a walk around the halls, leaving d’Artagnan and Athos alone.

They’re sitting on the wildly uncomfortable visitor bed by the window, shoulder to shoulder, both with their feet stretched out in front of them and their heads resting against the wall. D’Artagnan rolls his head toward Athos. “I love you, you know?"

Athos takes his hand and squeezes it. “I know, and I love you."

“Are you scared?” d’Artagnan asks.

There’s moment’s pause before Athos shakes his head. “No, I thought I might be, but instead I’m just… I haven’t felt this way since I was waiting for you to show up for our second date."

“Not the first one?"

“Good lord, no. For the first date, I was too busy being terrified you’d wear that hat again."

“Pfft,” d’Artagnan scoffs. “You’re not fooling me. You loved that hat. That hat brought us together."

Athos turns to take both of d’Artagnan’s hands. “Love of my life, I want to say this from the bottom of my heart, so there will never be doubt in your mind - I fucking _hated_ that hat."

D’Artagnan is still laughing when Anora comes back into the room, her face pinched and her gait more awkward than before. He rushes to help her on to the bed and the doula calls for the nurse. Anora is nearly fully dilated, and the minute the nurse says those words Athos’ heart starts banging against the walls of his chest. The nurse busies herself hooking up heart rate monitors for Anora and the baby and calls for the obstetrician. He comes through the door with some positively insipid comment like “Well, are we ready to meet the little fella?” and d’Artangnan isn’t sure if he’s going to have to restrain Anora or Athos from punching the guy.

The doctor also seems to expect it to be louder because he keeps trying to shush and cajole Anora along. When she grits her teeth and says, “I am trying to concentrate,” he just pats her knee gives her a patronizing smile.

“Of course you are, dear."

Anora waves d’Artagnan over, clutching at his hand as soon as he’s in range. He stands there, letting her grip him until the contraction passes and her face relaxes. When her breathing is back to normal, she looks him straight in the eye. “I need you to stay over here, because if I punch this guy it’ll pull my monitor out. Plus, there will be a shitload more paperwork to deal with.” She takes a deep breath as the next wave starts creeping up on her. “And it can’t be Athos, he’ll just punch the guy for me. So stand right here."

The next hour and a half takes an eternity and is over in a flash. It seems Athos barely has time to blink between Anora's words and the doctor asking who gets to cut the cord. D’Artagnan’s hand is still clutched desperately in Anora’s and he’s staring at Athos. Athos’ eyes are as big as the moon and he’s suddenly terrified.

“Athos?” It’s the doula who gets his attention. “There are going to be eighty thousand terrifying moments in the next twenty years, but for this one there are medical staff and you’re in a hospital and the baby’s too young to be scarred for life. Come cut the cord.”

It’s already clamped off on either side of where he needs to cut, there’s barely any blood when he cuts through. And just like that, the baby is on his own and now it’s up to d’Artagnan and Athos to help him, to provide for him.

The doctor hands him to Anora first, she hadn’t asked, but d’Artagnan thought it would be best and Athos was too stunned to comment. She coos over him, kisses his head, watches his little fists shake, and all the while Athos just stares. Anora asks what his name will be. "Charles,” Athos says. “Charles Thomas. Charlie," and it isn’t until he says it out loud like that he feels the joy start to edge out the panic.

When he looks up, d’Artagnan is reaching to take the baby from Anora as she says, “Here, it’s your turn to carry him now, I need a nap.” D’Artagnan cups that tiny head in his big palm and cradles the baby to his chest, his eyes are bright and wet.

Athos goes to stand at d’Artagnan’s elbow, his fingers stroking over the baby’s head. “Hello,” d'Artagnan says, so soft and so quiet it’s nearly a whisper. “Hello, Charlie."

 

Charlie gets a bath, gets measured and cleaned up, gets a hat so that his head doesn’t look nearly so pointy and gets handed back to his fathers. Neither of them has ever seen a newborn before, and it’s a bit of a shock. He’s so _purple_ still, and his face is so wrinkled. He looks like the angriest old man they’ve ever seen.

Athos has heard new parents in his office talking about their new babies, about how small they are, but he’s never understood until now, has always thought they were just misremembering. Charlie is less than six and a half pounds and everything about him is impossibly tiny. D’Artagnan gets lost for a minute in how small his fingernails are. They can see his little tongue vibrating in his mouth as he cries and d’Artagnan bounces him in an effort to soothe him.

“Charlie,” Athos says, "I’m your papa and this is your daddy and we’ve been—," the hitch in his voice is barely there, “we’ve been waiting to meet you."

 

There is surprisingly little paperwork. There are trips back and forth to the nursery and impromptu lessons from the nurses in feeding and cleaning. They take it all in, wide-eyed and confidently hopeful by turns. Anora smiles at them the entire time, she says she’s always known they would be good at this. When the discharge process is finally over, when they’re all finally in the parking lot and d’Artagnan is holding Charlie safely buckled into his car seat, it seems there’s nothing left to say.

D'Artagnan clutches Anora into a hug so tight she makes a little "oof" sound. "I can't... thank you seems so small," he says.

She pats his cheek. "You guys are going to be aces at this."

She’s already been paid her fee, so Anora looks a little confused when Athos hands her an envelope with her name on it and tells her it’s the least they can do. He asks her to wait until they’re gone to open it. Athos thinks back to a day in June, just after school got out, when Anora had brought her two kids with her to one of her checkups. D’Artagnan had been utterly charmed by them. He’d talked to them while they waited and let Anora’s daughter tell him about all the characters she wanted to meet someday at Disney World.

In the envelope are all the tickets and confirmation numbers Anora will need to make the trip happen.

 

D’Artagnan wakes that night to find that Athos is not beside him. Charlie had fallen asleep in the swing at the foot of their bed and d’Artagnan hadn’t heard him wake up again. He also hadn’t heard Athos get up, scoop the sleeping baby from the swing and creep quietly into the nursery. That’s where d’Artagnan finds them, Athos in the glider and Charlie in his arms.

Athos is speaking to Charlie in French, nonsense words about how good he is, how handsome and strong, how he will be splendid at whatever he sets his mind to. Athos tells Charlie about the things they will see together in Paris, how he’ll let Charlie splash in fountains in Madrid and Rome.

Looking up, Athos sees d’Artagnan standing in the doorway and a smile creeps over his face as he switches to English. “Charlie, did you know that your daddy is the handsomest man ever? The kindest and smartest? And that from the very first moment I saw him all I could think of was kissing him? Did you know, Charlie, that between me and your daddy, you will have more love than any little boy in the world? Because we love you so much, Charlie.”

D’Artagnan has crossed the room to stand next to the glider; his hand is resting on Athos’ shoulder. Athos reaches up to grip his fingers, but never takes his eyes off Charlie's face.

“We love you so much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you're wondering about accuracy, this is pretty much the exact timeline of my pregnancy. I put ultrasounds where I got ultrasounds (I actually had more of them because I'm ooooold) It's also the timeline of my labor, including the incredibly short time with the obstetrician. I actually stretched Anora's out because I know my forty minutes is not really believable. (It would have been shorter but he ended up having to do some stuff after the birth) I am the birth story you don't tell your friends because the ones who had 28 hour labors want to punch me in the face. For the sake of this story I went with brevity because a) no one wants to read about them just sitting in the hospital staring at the walls and b) those nice people with 28 hour labor stories have enough traumatic flashbacks without me contributing.


End file.
